


The Penance for a Dead Man's Sins

by Writerboy (Hobbitrocious)



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Kink Meme, M/M, Master/Pet, Master/Servant, Minor Character Death, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Slash, Slave Sherlock Holmes, collaring
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 11:50:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3767092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobbitrocious/pseuds/Writerboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Dr. John Watson went to the estate auction expecting to be mildly entertained. He did not expect to purchase a personal servant - or a dog, for that matter.</p><p>Now the doctor is in a bit over his head trying to determine the best way to deal with a man who, in a world of free men, has no direction or will of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt at the old Sherlock Holmes Kink Meme on LiveJournal. (Circa 2011, I think?) Re-uploaded by request.
> 
> Praise and thanks be to Abba YHWH, who allows me to express myself through this writing and in so many other ways!

The aftermath of the months of terror felt surprisingly normal again. But then, the English knew how to keep their calm and carry on.

Parliament quickly cleaned up the mess left (a mess by the name of Lord Coward, and associates) and private trustees wrangled together the late Lord Blackwood's estate for liquidation.

All of London had been abuzz, weeks earlier, over Blackwood's accidental death. A tour of the new bridge construction proved surprisingly fatal for the would-have-been usurper.

As the doctor most often consulted by Scotland Yard, Dr. John H. Watson was the one to inspect the body and provide his medical opinion after it had been collected. As a token of gratitude, an inspector had tipped him off to the rather hush-hush business of the auction; the Blackwood estate had no inheritors - at least, none that dared make themselves known - thus it was seized and slated to be bid upon for the benefit of charities and official funds alike.

So here Watson stood, alongside the wall in a tightly packed room, viewing the auction's proceedings with interest. Many of the attendees had a morbid interest in the whole ordeal, and absurd things such as the more mundane contents of Lord Blackwood's wardrobe, his house slippers, his ashtrays, all found bidders.

The contents of the deceased's life were categorised and presented in turn within their scheduled portion of the day. When it came time for the living articles - the pets, the contracted help who agreed to put their services out for bidding (which included a highly sought-after chef and some very skilled groundskeepers), and, according to the itinerary, a single "indentured personal attendant" - Watson imagined the room felt a little more energised than before.

The canaries were bought by a lady wearing an abundantly feathered hat. The remaining length of contracts, considering the artisans Blackwood hired, spurred some amusingly competitive bidding. An exotic-looking lynx almost didn't sell until it was about to be led back off the stage. A lazy, overfed bull pup that whined at the intimidating crowd followed; after the stunning lynx, the audience hardly thought the dog worth their time.

One man jokingly called out, "I'll give you two p for it!"

Well below the starting price, it elicited a wave of sniggering and chuckles across the room. After that died down, there was a long pause. 

Watson rolled his eyes at the indifference of the wealthy. The sad-looking pup really did pull at Watson's heartstrings, enough that he couldn't stand to see it led away without a home to go to after the affair. At the last possible moment, Watson called out and matched the base bid. 

He had a new dog. Though he hadn't wanted to spend any money here today, he considered the bulldog a sound purchase. The poor beast needed someone, and Watson could surely have done with a companion.

The doctor felt glad, until the next item was walked onstage.

 _Indentured personal attendant_ , Watson remembered reading in the pamphlet.

This creature looked evermore forlorn than the dog, and nowhere near as pampered. The "item" was a trim, undernourished man. Wrapped in a well-worn housecoat covered in frayed embroidery and stumbling in shoes obviously not his own, he was led in on a leash just like the dog.

The entire room sat up and took notice, the air took on a tension thicker than when the feral lynx prowled before the front row.

The auctioneer had a difficult time looking up from his podium as he announced, as detached as achievable, "and here we have one personal attendant to the late estate holder, retained by the deceased for six years and forty-eight days out of an agreed upon sentence to ten years' servitude. The item at hand being the remaining three years, ten and one half months of service." The nature of the servant's duties was not detailed by the auctioneer. "Bidding will start at fifteen guineas."

Mutterings and whispers filled the room immediately. If there were not already rumours about Lord Blackwood's eccentric habits prior, there would be more after this evening.

A pair of soulful brown eyes flitted once over the sea of seated onlookers, then returned to watching the floorboards. The man on display looked unnaturally accustomed to wearing a dog collar, and to having someone hold his lead.

The moments that dragged on pained Watson far more than the lack of interest for the bulldog's fate. How the decision had been made to allow this man to be put up with the rest of the property was baffling, to put it mildly.

On the other hand, such sordid roles as this _indentured servant_ possibly played within Blackwood's home were not entirely unheard of. They were just very, very unorthodox. 

And, to a secret few, they were a guilty fantasy; perhaps a guilty fantasy of one certain ex-military doctor in attendance.

As the obscene nattering went on, Watson made a quick, rough estimate as to how badly his pocketbook would suffer. Then, shouting above the growing ruckus, he raised his hand and offered, "fifteen guineas and sixpence."

Heads turned, the chatter hushed. Watson met a few of the burning, curious stares and couldn't help feel as though he would have liked to have been shot right then and there.

Finally, the auctioneer cleared his dry throat and tapped his gavel. He droned gravely, "Sold to the party who purchased the bull pup."

Under the distinct notion there was nothing else worth staying for, Watson shuffled past those who remained to bid on the crockery and furnishings, and slipped into the receiving room to pay up.

His money was taken with a thank-you, and someone was summoned to bring his purchases in.

Both the roly-poly dog and the despondent, doe-eyed man were brought on leashes. Awkwardly, an auction house employee handed both leads over to Watson, who took them even as a stricken expression came over him.

The employee leaned just close enough to lower his voice and tell Watson, "I have been made to understand he becomes violent when attempts are made to remove his collar." A sidelong glance at the petit brunet punctuated his inform.

Watson nodded, answered, "I see. I'll keep that in mind, thank you," and wondered if he hadn't gotten himself in over his head. Already, in the collared man's eyes, Watson could see this was a matter of having survived a nightmare, not of entering a fantasy. The dog, if previously abused, might yet be made to learn trust. Watson mused this as he sombrely led his new, little family to the line of cabs hitched outside.

Out of two, that made one slightly less than hopeless case.

It struck Watson to ask his acquired... servant, technically... before following him into the cab, "have you any clothes or belongings we should pick up before we leave?"

The slight man shook his head in a vigorous 'no', causing his unkempt hair to flop into his eyes.

"Right, then." With nothing else he could think of to say, Watson climbed in and sat next to the dog, across from the man. Only the bull pup's leash remained in Watson's hand; the other one hung limply in the servant's lap.

It wasn't exactly a warm day, and Watson took in the fact there was nothing beneath the shabby housecoat. The servant's neck and a pale patch of clavicle were exposed to the air, and bare calves showed indecently between the hem and a droopy pair of stockings.

The man kept to himself and seemed resolute not to look at Watson.

His conscience already well caught up with him, Watson eventually broke the silence in the cab with, "I live in a small flat on Baker Street. We're not far from it now."

No response, not even the bat on an eye. Quelling an urge to ask if the man was alright, Watson continued, 

"Once we're there, we'll find some clothes that will fit you, and you can be on your way. And... and I'm sure I can spare some pocket money to get you started off, but if you need to stay a few nights before you find yourself a..." Watson stopped short.

The man suddenly was staring straight at him with something like panic written across his face. 

"No," the servant said. It was urgent, a plea, but soft.

Watson floundered for a reply, not even sure what part of it all the man was objecting to. "I... No?" 

He waited for the man to elaborate, but all the servant did was bite his lip and duck his head lower than before, as though ashamed for having spoken.

The wild, whimsical writer's imagination in Watson filled in some blanks, as it had done earlier, and Watson feared he really did begin to understand some of the sort of treatment this "personal attendant" was used to.

"You can stay with me as long as you like, then," Watson hastily amended, "and we can work out the details when we're home."

Watson wasn't sure if he saw the man nod his assent, or if it was simply the unavoidable movement of a bumpy coach ride.

The dog snorted, fast asleep now against Watson's thigh. For the rest of the trip, Watson stroked its fur and remained pensively silent.

Herding his two charges up the seventeen stairs, Watson mused what odd luck it was that Mrs. Hudson was out for the day. Her reaction to the bulldog wasn't something Watson was looking forward to when she returned.

Talking while he got the dog settled on an old floor pillow and unclipped its tether, Watson explained to the servant that the rooms upstairs, and the kitchen and washroom below, were theirs to use. When Watson stood back up, he saw fully how anxious his new "live property" was.

The man stood in the centre of the room and made a short, full turn, letting his eyes dance about the tidy room. His arms were wrapped tightly around him. When he realised Watson was looking again, he dropped his arms at his sides.

Watson worried that it might take some time to evaluate whether the man actually _could_ function on his own, were Watson to let him go.

Watson tried to give him a reassuring smile and congenially wrapped an arm 'round the man's back to coax him toward the settee. 

"Come, let me see your lead," Watson said and motioned for them to sit together.

The servant sat rigidly beside Watson. Immediately, the end of the leash was held out to Watson, who cupped a hand over the man's and shook his head. The man offered little expression, observing Watson warily, but then turned toward Watson and presented his neck. Watson hesitantly reached for the clip that would spring the leash from the collar.

"What's your name?" Watson asked, focussed on the clip. It was a difficult one, and must have been a pain to attach in the first place.

"Puppy," the man said with unusual ease, "or Pet."

Watson drew back and regarded him, searched for a sign that he was joking. 

"Your name before that," Watson requested in a cautious tone. It flitted across his mind that another name may not have existed, had the man been in his profession long enough.

The servant's gaze dropped; he seemed to have to search for the answer.

"Holmes," the man finally whispered, "Sherlock Holmes."

Watson tucked his finger under the man's chin and made him look up again.

"Then," Watson said, sounding more confident than he felt, "Sherlock Holmes, I am happy to have you with me."

A struggle was evident on Holmes' face. Watson stared steadfastly into the big, brown eyes, not in the least bit aware how menacing the words might have sounded to Holmes.

Satisfied with the introduction, Watson checked the leash clip one more time, sighed at it, and said, "Holmes?" He smiled tersely, remembering the warning he'd gotten at the auction house. "I can't seem to get the lead off. Would you mind if I... just removed the entire collar?"

Holmes' jaw dropped; for a split second he looked absolutely mortified, but he closed his mouth and tilted his head further, leaving the thick, silver buckle in easy reach. He even brought his own hand up and held his wavy locks out of Watson's way.

Muttering a surprised "thank you," Watson set to work wiggling the stubborn leather out of the buckle.

The collar came away stiffly, moulded to the shape of Holmes' neck through long use. The skin beneath showed unhealthy mottling. Most of it was a pale ring, but Watson could tell which patches were more often rubbed raw than others.

Tenderly, Watson touched his fingertips to the skin. Holmes didn't move, didn't so much as flinch.

"Have you been wearing it the whole time Blackwood's been gone?" Watson wondered aloud.

Holmes' eyes met his; rather than say, Holmes nodded from his awkward position.

"That makes nearly a month!" Watson breathed incredulously.

Holmes' brow furrowed. He was disturbed by Watson's show of sympathy; it didn't feel right, just as the horrified reactions and concerned reassurances from the outsiders who found him weeks ago didn't feel right. Just as, days after, the nurse trying to remove his collar and inviting him outside, into the cart waiting to depart for the hospital, didn't feel right. (He hadn't wanted to strike her on principle, it was just that she'd been so _persistent_.)

The compassion that moved them to their efforts confused him. A long time ago it might not have, but things were different these days. Holmes was a different creature now, a rigorously trained pet. He knew his place, and this did _not_ feel like it.

His anxiety peaking, particularly because the familiar weight of the leather was gone, Holmes began to fidget there on the settee.

Watson, instantly assuming his touch upset Holmes, snatched his hand away from Holmes' neck.

"I'm quite sorry," Watson blurted. He checked back to the mental list he started to compile, of things to do to get Holmes settled in. He asked, "when was the last you ate?"

Holmes fidgeted a bit more, not wanting to answer by speech. "Food?" he finally had to ask for clarification.

Watson wasn't sure what to make of that. "Yes," he repeated, "food. When was the last time you ate a meal or drank water?"

"This morning," Holmes answered.

 _Good_ , Watson thought. Whoever readied Holmes for the auction had at least the decency to provide him something. Watson had a niggling suspicion that, until the auction, Holmes was left at the estate with the other items. The poor man was, no doubt, made to fear consequences for leaving while Blackwood was alive, the same as he feared taking off his collar.

"You do know that Blackwood is dead," Watson asked. It occurred to him that, in all the hubbub, Blackwood's house pet might not have been informed of anything past a bobby's curt, _you're free to leave_.

A tiny nod from Holmes. "I was told that," he agreed. 

Holmes knew it, he just wasn't entirely certain he could believe it. If Blackwood was deceased, he was survived by a network of spies and cohorts, Holmes knew that much. A veteran army doctor who had seen action in - Holmes gave Watson another once-over - Afghanistan was not above Holmes' suspicion. If Blackwood's death had been faked, as Holmes knew plans existed for, this doctor could have been his assigned keeper, a temporary handler until Lord Blackwood returned.

There was no way for Holmes to be sure. All of the requirements were ticked off that told Holmes Watson was genuine, but, even then, he could unwittingly have been part of a larger scheme.

Furthermore, temporary or not, Dr. Watson was now Master. The reasonable thing for Holmes to do would be to continue following the Rules taught him. 

Holmes told himself it was the logical decision. In reality, he was so deeply conditioned that the decision was no longer his.


	2. Chapter 2

Hearing someone enter the front door downstairs, Watson rose with an apologetic word and left his two "puppies" alone for just a few minutes. 

He returned carrying a tray of dishes. Manoeuvring the door open and shut again behind him, Watson announced, "the landlady's just gotten back in; she had some of yesterday's crumpets on hand. I'm sorry they aren't fresh. I let Missus Hudson know we'll be two for dinner."

He glanced around and fixed on the sight of Holmes knelt on the floor, arms crossed behind his back and stark naked. Watson barely had time to set the tray down before he would have dropped it.

"What on Earth..."

Watson grabbed the dressing gown from where Holmes had folded it and left it to sit. Quickly, he knelt in front of Holmes (absolutely not succumbing to the urge to let his eyes rove over the bare body with its compactly muscled curves and dusky hair) and draped the robe over the smaller man's shoulders.

 _Oh, my. Look there_ , Watson thought before he could stop himself, _I wonder if Blackwood's played with that? How often, in how many ways?_

Holmes appeared confused, perhaps a little sad, looking at the dressing gown bemusedly as a flustered Watson tried to pull it snug around him. Holmes made no move to help.

Watson opened it again and said brusquely, "here, give me your arm." 

Holmes did, and Watson guided it awkwardly through a sleeve. Holmes brought his other arm forward and let Watson do the same with it. Finally, Watson was able to wrap the front around Holmes' wiry waist and tie it closed, to tuck away that tantalising figure.

Blackwood was a bad man, Watson reminded himself; he did not take in this poor chap to continue his use as a toy. 

Nevertheless, Watson had bad thoughts. Those thoughts grew worse, just for an instant, even as Watson realised Holmes bared himself for exactly the purposes Watson berated himself for considering.

Too uncomfortable to address the issue of _there should be no undressing for my sexual pleasure_ , Watson instead latched onto his next biggest concern. 

Still flustered, he grumped at Holmes in a tone that ended up sounding as incredulous accusation, "it's ghastly cold; whatever were you thinking?"

Holmes abandoned eye contact immediately, gazing down and to Watson's side. Watson could veritably feel the submission in the gesture, the hopeless, mindless surrender.

Desperate that it should not remain a habit for Holmes, Watson found himself reaching and cupping Holmes' face in his hands. He coaxed Holmes to look at him and said, more calmly, "it is cold in here, and you must keep that on until I've got the fire lit. We'll find you some warmer clothes in a minute." 

His heart breaking a bit more at the sight of Holmes' big, brown eyes staring wide into his, Watson was compelled to smooth his thumbs over Holmes' cheeks in some small effort to soothe him.

"Do you understand?" Watson asked. He slid his palms down to Holmes' shoulders and rubbed gently there, too. Holmes was so tense.

Holmes nodded, very carefully, still regarding Watson with a bewildered look.

Watson sat there with him dumbly for a moment as he wrapped his mind around the strength of the fear, the conditioning, the _damage_ Blackwood imposed on Holmes. He let out a heavy sigh and dropped his hands to Holmes'. 

Startled by the difference between his own warmth and the frigid fingers he hit, Watson picked up one of Holmes' hands and rubbed it in both of his.

"Here, you've caught a chill already." 

Worried, Watson took Holmes' other hand and rubbed briskly. Then, standing and setting up the food he had brought as he spoke, Watson thought aloud, "I'll get you a change of clothes first, and hot water bottles from my office. Making the fire may take me a while, we get a fair draft up here... I want to get you under some blankets before I start."

A bowl of cold meat drippings and crumbs went on the floor for the bull pup, and a plate of crumpets and jam went on the settee for Holmes.

"Missus Hudson is making tea," Watson added. "Go ahead and tuck in while I find the blankets." He rushed off to fetch said blankets, eagre to have Holmes covered and decent before the tea was ready.

Having tossed together everything but the hot water bottles, Watson returned to the room with his stack of blankets and clothes.

When he returned, he found both Holmes and the freshly woken bulldog working happily away at _each other's_ meals. 

The snuffling bull pup's muzzle was sticky with jam and would need to be washed. Holmes was a sight on his own; he was crouched on all fours with his head over the bowl, alternating between sipping and licking to get all of the dog's slop he could without picking up the dish.

Watson dropped his bundle on the nearest surface and rushed to pull the dog off the furniture. 

"Holmes!" Watson barked as he wrestled the dog down from the cushions, "what are you doing?"

Holmes cringed, head snapping up from the bowl, and he sat up wearing the guiltiest expression Watson had ever seen.

Watson led the bull pup to the meat slop and let go of its collar. The dog lapped heartily at what remained, seeming to consider it dessert.

Holmes reverently scooted out of the dog's way, crawled to Watson's feet, and laid his head on the floor. Watson thought he heard Holmes sniffle, just once.

With his initial outrage in check again, Watson immediately sank to the floor and pulled Holmes up by the shoulders.

"No," Watson murmured, summoning his patience, "no, you don't have to do that."

Holmes sat back up, obediently, but kept his body tight - as though he expected a blow or a serious dressing-down.

Watson kept a gentle hold on Holmes' shoulders and explained, "I brought the crumpets for you, but the dog's ruined them. You don't ever have to eat the dog's food while you're here, Holmes. You'll eat as well as I do, I promise you."

Something wet glistened in Holmes' eyes but did not fall.

"We'll have tea in just a few minutes." Watson stroked Holmes' cheek and finished, "that should tide you over until dinner. Missus Hudson likes to cook ours a bit early, so it shouldn't be too long."

Holmes nodded, very slightly.

Watson wanted to clutch Holmes to his chest and hold him until he simply hugged away all the hurt he could. Instead, he calmly told Holmes it was time to get dressed and handed him the spare clothing.

Watson's shirt and trousers were comically long on Holmes, and Holmes let the cuffs dangle rather than roll them up. Holmes also shook his head when Watson pressed him to don the socks, so Watson pushed no further.

"Alright, make yourself comfortable on the couch," Watson instructed. 

The same as he would have done for an ailing patient, Watson tucked extra cushions behind Holmes' head and ensured the blankets were tucked against any draft, especially around his bare feet. He fished Holmes' hand out from the covers once he was settled, pulled the hanging shirtsleeve up, and felt Holmes' fingers again.

"Perhaps we won't need the hot water bottles," Watson amended, "but I want you to stay here and warm up, yes?" He slid Holmes' arm back into the blanket.

Holmes nodded.

Watson moved to the hearth, pulled what he needed from the scuttle, and set to work kindling the fire. He looked back to the settee every now and again to reassure himself Holmes was alright. Holmes watched Watson silently, observing with some curiosity of an indefinite nature.

The fire caught, and Watson replaced the grate. He dragged an armchair across the room in order to seat himself in front of Holmes, who had stayed put and clothed.

For good measure, Watson felt Holmes' face with the back of his hand. Holmes' skin was a higher temperature there, but still cooler than Watson's.

Holmes jumped unexpectedly after Watson drew away, as though given a sudden fright. A second later, Watson heard Missus Hudson approaching on the stair.

Watson rubbed Holmes' arm reassuringly through the blanket. 

"That will be the landlady," he reminded Holmes, and rose to open the door.

He took the tray from her at the door, but Missus Hudson insistently skirted past him to get a good look at Watson's guests. 

She saw the bulldog first and remarked, "I do hope that animal is housetrained, doctor."

Watson hastily assured her it was, and set the tea where Holmes could easily reach it.

Missus Hudson turned around and realised the settee was occupied. She shot a questioning look to Watson - he told her, downstairs, of the poorly looked-after "friend" he brought home - and crept around for a peek.

"Oh, my goodness, but he's so gaunt!" She exclaimed before remembering her manners.

"Yes," Watson agreed, wincing. He reached around her for the tea, moistened the tea towel with it, and went to wash the pup's jammy fur.

Holmes, for his part, stared at Missus Hudson intently. She stared back, perplexed at the silent stranger.

Watson, cleaning the last of the tacky jam, was oblivious to their ominous stare down until he heard Missus Hudson ask,

"Mister Holmes?"

Watson looked up and saw her bent over Holmes, brushing his hair back from his face. Watson gave the dog a pat and joined them near the fire.

Holmes, though he looked frightened, replied under his breath, "yes. I remember you."

"What _happened_ to you?" Missus Hudson demanded, quite distraught.

Watson chimed in with, "you two _know_ each other?"

He expected Missus Hudson to answer, but it was Holmes who said, "I helped her family put to rest a delicate matter, some years ago." So matter of fact, Holmes sounded more like a normal chap having a conversation than Watson heard from him yet.

Missus Hudson added, "I don't know him well, but he's a good man. I hadn't heard a thing of him for close to seven years. This... I'm sorry, Doctor, it's just a bit of a shock!" Indeed, she looked as though she'd seen a ghost.

She turned to Holmes again. "Whatever you've been put through, you're in good hands with Doctor Watson. He's lodged here long enough for me to know that." Her pensive scowl turned briefly into a sad smile. She said with irony, "as if you weren't thin enough before! As soon as I've sorted my bags from my outing, I'm starting dinner. Doctor, you can take some biscuits from the tin if he wants any."

With that, she bustled out the door and down the stairs to get busy. 

Watson shook his head after her, in wonder at the revelation.

Then, still feeling terrible about the crumpets, Watson checked, "would you like some biscuits, Holmes?"

Holmes tensed all over again. This little game was familiar to him; Blackwood, when he had given Holmes this sort of open choice, generally had already in mind the answer he wanted from Holmes. If Holmes failed to answer the proper way, if Blackwood was put off by so much as Holmes' inflections, it tended not to end well for 'puppy'.

Blackwood had more often been pleased once Holmes established a habit of responding by way of receptive, acquiescing silence. 

Allowing Blackwood to make his choices for him meant daily life passed by more smoothly. Holmes was not about to start making waves with the new master. He waited for the doctor to steer him, even in the face of Watson's impatience for an answer. At long last, Holmes gave no more than a very shy shrug.

"It's a simple yes or no question," Watson prodded. "Do you want some biscuits while we wait for dinner, or don't you?"

Under the blanket, Holmes drew his hands up defensively beneath his chin. He looked like he wanted to say yes, but he only shrugged again.

Watson rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily and sighed, frustrated that Holmes clammed up again so quickly. 

"I'll bring some up, then," he said, "and you can eat what you like. I'll be right back."

He went downstairs, checked in on Missus Hudson and was assured she was alright, if not a little emotional, then grabbed her tin of sweet biscuits from the pantry.

Holmes was just as he had been left, and the bulldog was lounging closer to the warm grate. Watson sat and opened the tin and placed a small handful of biscuits on a saucer, which he held before Holmes.

Holmes sat up a little, eyes flicking between the biscuits and the doctor. Though Watson gestured for him to take the entire saucer, Holmes simply waited. He did not unwrap his arms from the blanket. 

Holmes' mind buzzed with apprehension. Blackwood would have perhaps teased him some first, but eventually would have fed his pet by hand. Holmes was made to be quite sorry if ever he took treats from a dish himself. Only from his doggie bowl was he allowed to feed himself, and even that sometimes required explicit permission from Master.

In short, he was waiting for Watson to pick up a biscuit and bring it to his lips for him. Holmes was a bit puzzled why he didn't; Blackwood had so enjoyed treating Holmes as though he was incapable of doing certain things for himself. Holmes rather expected a domineering doctor would similarly find his particular brand of learned helplessness amusing.

Secretly - perhaps only really subconsciously - Holmes suspected that, whether Watson was enthusiastically domineering or not, he would need the doctor to take the lead all the same - just as with everything else so far. Holmes could not keep himself together without such minute guidance, not after having it forced on him for so long.

He feared Watson would lose patience with him and set the saucer down someplace, and then Holmes would not have the courage to touch it.

A shade desperate, Holmes averted his eyes, bent forward just a hint, and parted his lips in an unmistakable 'feed me' posture.

Watson inwardly balked as the meaning sank in, and he knew: between Holmes' dive for the dog food and now the repeated aversion to helping himself to proper fare, Watson knew. If such a simple thing as eating became a point of control during Holmes' captivity, then it was only the tip of the iceberg. 

It was no wonder Holmes had panicked at Watson's suggestion of striking out on his own as a free man.

Ill at ease over the realisation, Watson considered what other sorts of ingrained submission he might discover in Holmes in the coming days and weeks.

The doctor studied Holmes with pursed lips. After a steeling breath that cinched his resignation to caring for Holmes as needed instead of rushing him along to a haphazard semblance of recovery, Watson picked up a biscuit and held it gently to Holmes' mouth while tucking the saucer close to Holmes' chin in anticipation of crumbs.

Holmes' gorgeous, big, brown eyes locked onto Watson's for an instant, speaking a silent thanks as Holmes accepted it. Holmes shyly nibbled at the pastry while Watson held it, having been trained to eat his human-food treats delicately for the sake of show no matter how ravenously starved he was.

Watson's eyebrows shot up when Holmes finished it off by licking the sugary residue from Watson's fingers very, very thoroughly. The attention was obviously not designed to avoid wasting crumbs, but to entice his provider.

Clearing his throat, Watson reclaimed his hand. 

"Here, a sip of tea," the doctor flustered, finding the cup and bringing it to Holmes' lips.

They continued like that in silence until Watson finished feeding Holmes two more biscuits and the last of that one cup of tea.

With the dishes set aside, Watson reached for Holmes' face with one hand, sliding fingertips into his hair. He cupped Holmes' cheek and regarded him thoughtfully.

Holmes closed his eyes and pressed into Watson's touch. Watson could feel Holmes' body thrum with need for the affection.

Rubbing his thumb across Holmes' cheekbone, Watson murmured, knowing how it sounded but feeling the need to state it aloud, "It looks as though Lord Blackwood did quite a number on you."

He couldn't tell if Holmes registered what he was saying at that point, so wrapped up in absorbing the caress was the fragile man. 

Watson sighed.

"You'll be safe here," he promised, getting Holmes' attention back. "It may take me a while to figure out all of your needs, but... you'll have patience with me, won't you?" 

He ended with a bittersweet smile. What other choice did Holmes have?

Holmes' answer was a heartbreakingly tender kiss to the palm of Watson's hand, another meaningful flicker of too-rare eye contact.

Watson wasn't sure he deserved it after his fleeting intentions back at the auction house, but he accepted what it represented.

Whatever trust Holmes had left to give he would give to Watson.

And that, fates willing, would be enough to enable the doctor to retrain Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of posting, April 2015, this is all that exists of this story. I do not know when I will write more, but at the very least I will try once I've gotten through "Patching Up the Loom That Is the Past". My Bruschetta Universe stories are very personal to me, and I feel I need to finish the series before I can put my heart into any other writing. 
> 
> If there is another of my old SH KinkMeme stories I have not posted here that anyone would like to see uploaded, you can let me know here or at any of my other accounts (LiveJournal, DeviantArt) and I will post it under this pseud.


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